by Unknown
“Yeah,” said a voice in his ear. “So did we.”
There were two of them—heavy-shouldered men with a solidly official weight behind their movements. They crowded close against Collins, pinning him against the desk, and one took him by each arm.
“Just take it easy,” said the one who had first spoken. “This is a pinch, and you’re it. Don’t start a beef.” He was taller than his companion, and he had a mangled cigar in the corner of his mouth. His eyes were the same color as the cigar.
The second one felt Collins’ pockets with rapid patting hands. “He’s clean.” He had a sagging, surly face and black eyebrows that met in a bar above his eyes.
“Come along,” said the tall one. “Nice and quiet now. Just like we’re pals.”
They still each had one of Collins’ arms, and the three of them turned in unison, like a drill team, and started toward the elevator.
“Hey!” said a voice behind them. “Hey, wait a minute, guys!”
The detectives kept right on going with Collins between them, but the man darted around ahead of them and faced them excitedly, arms spread wide, as though he were trying to shoo some refractory chickens. He was thin and blond and a little hungry-looking. His eyes glinted eagerly behind horn-rimmed glasses.
“Hey, guy!” he said to Collins. “You! What’s your name?”
“Scram,” said the tall detective.
The little man waved his arms. “Aw, have a heart! Come on, let him tell me his name! Give me a break!”
“Beat it,” said the tall detective.
The little man ignored him. “Listen, guy. I’m a reporter, see? Give me your name, and I’ll—”
The surly detective stepped forward and put his meaty hand in the middle of the little man’s face and shoved hard. “One side, louse!”
The little man went flapping backwards like a damp rag. He hit a chair and went over it with a clattering thud, and the last Collins saw as the detectives pushed him into the elevator were his two feet waving helplessly over the top of the tipped chair.
“That was mighty brave of you,” said Collins conversationally. “I guess you’re a couple of pretty hard guys.”
“Shut up,” said the tall detective.
The elevator was a self-operated one, and the door clanged shut as he pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator rose wearily and stopped with a sudden jump.
“Right down the hall,” said the surly detective.
One on either side, still holding his arms, they marched Collins the length of the dingy hallway and stopped at the end door. The tall one rapped on it.
“Come on in,” a voice ordered.
The surly one opened the door, and they boosted Collins through it and stopped him short just inside.
There was one man standing all by himself in the center of the room, scowling. “Well?” he said. He was short, and he had a paunch and the beginnings of a double chin. He was wearing a green polo shirt and a yellow straw hat with a wide green-and-red band on it. Also, for contrast, he was wearing a brown sport jacket and brown checked slacks. His nose was flat, and his eyes were shot with reddish veins.
“This guy,” said the tall detective. “He give the name of John Collins. He was askin’ for the old lady.”
“That true?” asked the man in the yellow hat.
Collins nodded. “Yes. Would you like me to show you something funny?”
“Sure,” said the man in the yellow hat.
Collins suddenly spread both of his legs wide and then bent forward and brought his arms violently together in front of him. The two detectives couldn’t have done it more neatly if they had rehearsed. They were jerked forward, off-balance, and they each tripped over a different one of Collins’ legs. They hit the floor with a jar that jingled the chandelier.
“Yeah,” said the man in the yellow hat, not at all startled. “That was funny. Grimes! Craig! Quit that! Get up off the floor and get the hell out of here! Go on out in the hall and wait there. You two clowns give me the pip.”
The two detectives picked themselves up, red-faced and panting. They stumbled out of the room and closed the door very quickly and quietly behind them.
“Am I arrested?” Collins asked.
“Hell, no,” said the man in the yellow hat, resuming his scowling survey of the room. “You wanta go home? All right. Good-bye.”
“I think I’ll stay.”
“Suit yourself. My name is Tilwitz. I’m a lieutenant of detectives—Homicide.”
“Has there been a murder?”
“How do I know?”
Collins said: “Well, are you going to talk to me, or are you going to stand there and sulk?”
“I got a headache,” said Tilwitz glumly. “I got two headaches—both of them out there in the hall. What do you want to talk about, as if I cared?”
“About Mrs. Della Martin. Is this her room?”
“That’s what they tell me, but people are liable to tell a cop almost anything.”
“Where is she?”
Tilwitz sighed and went over to the bed and sat down on it. “You got a cigarette?” He took one out of the pack Collins extended and accepted a light. “I don’t know where she is, but if you gave me a guess, I’d say she was dead.”
“What happened?”
ilwitz blew smoke in a long plume. “What kind of cigarettes are these? I don’t like ’em. Well, about an hour ago the people on this floor heard a scream and then a shot. So they called up the clerk and told him he’d better scout around a bit. So he came up here with one of the bellboys and knocked on a few doors. Results: zero.”
“Then what?” Collins asked.
“Crash of glass from inside this room. Thump-thump-thump—mysterious noises. So the clerk raps a while and calls a while and finally gets up nerve enough to unlock the door with the passkey.”
“What did he find?”
Tilwitz pointed to the window. “That—upper pane broken.” He pointed to the rug in front of the bathroom door. “That—bloodstain on the rug. That’s all.”
“Nothing else?” Collins said incredulously.
Tilwitz took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it distastefully. “These are awful. No. Nothing else. No body, no burglars, no Mrs. Martin—and no clothes.”
“What?” Collins said.
Tilwitz nodded. “It’s nuts, or I am. There wasn’t—and isn’t—one sign of Mrs. Martin in this room. She had a traveling bag and a suitcase when she came in. They’re gone, and everything that was in ’em is gone. Barring a couple of dirty towels and sheets, this room is exactly the way it was when it was rented to her three days ago. Nothing in the wastepaper basket. Nothing in the bureau drawers or closet. Just plain damned nothing.”
“What do you think happened?”
“If I could think, I wouldn’t be a detective. But it looks to me as if somebody doubled a rope around that radiator—it’s out of line about six inches—and let the rope out the window—there’s a scoured place on the sill—and lowered Mrs. Martin and all her baggage down into the alley. Whoever it was broke the window in the process of getting in or out or something.”
“What are you going to do about it?” asked Collins.
“Do?” said Tilwitz sourly. “Not a damned thing, son. There’s no law that says people have to keep their luggage in a hotel room and no law that says they can’t use the window to go out of it. It’s not a crime to have a nose bleed or even bust a window, if it’s an accident. So there you are.”
“You said you thought Mrs. Martin was dead.”
“That was my unofficial opinion. Don’t quote me. Have you got another cigarette?”
“I thought you said you didn’t like them?”
“They’re better than nothing,” Tilwitz said. “Not much better—but some. Thanks. That was a nice little juggling act you pulled on Grimes and Craig. You’re not supposed to be a detective unless you can read and write and count up to ten, but those two slipped through some way.”
&nb
sp; “Yes,” said Collins absently.
“If I’m boring you, you can leave any time now. I’ll have Grimes and Craig follow you, but that shouldn’t cramp your style much. Just make faces at them if they should bother you too much. They’ll run.”
Collins looked up. “Did you know that Mrs. Martin had a daughter here in Hollywood?”
“Sure,” Tilwitz answered. “She made a lot of inquiries and calls—talked about it to other people at the hotel.”
“She asked me to find her daughter.”
“Go ahead,” Tilwitz invited. “Who’s stopping you?”
“You’re not going to do anything else about this?”
“Not now. I should run my legs off and have the old lady pop up and give me the bird and maybe sue me for invasion of her privacy. There’s been no complaint filed by anybody—there’s no concrete evidence that any crime has been committed. I haven’t got any right to go prying around—even if I had the ambition.”
“Do you mind if I do?”
“Me?” said Tilwitz blandly. “Mind? Hell, no. Fly right at it.”
“I’ll tell you if I find anything.”
“Don’t bother,” Tilwitz advised. “Just keep it a deep dark secret.”
“Do you want my address?”
“If I want you,” said Tilwitz, “I’ll find you.”
Collins watched him thoughtfully. “No use giving your two stooges sore feet. I’m just going home now.”
“What’re you going to do when you get there?”
“Play the piano.”
“That’ll be nice. Play real pretty.”
Collins smiled a little. “Good-bye.”
Tilwitz nodded solemnly. “So long. I won’t have the two dopes follow you. Tell ’em to come in here.”
Collins went out into the hall. The two detectives were leaning against the wall, side by side, opposite the door. They glowered at Collins in grim silence.
Collins jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Your master is calling.”
“We won’t forget that little stunt you pulled,” the tall one promised. “We’ll be seeing you again, baby. Don’t think we won’t.”
Collins grinned. “Any time at all.”
The shabby little man with the horn-rimmed glasses was waiting for him down in the lobby.
“Hey, guy,” said the little man. “Wait a minute—please. Look, I’m a reporter. Name’s Rick Preston. I used to work for U.P., but I got boiled and got a couple of press dispatches mixed up, and they canned me. I can get back on again if I have a story to bring in with me. How about a break, guy?”
Collins shrugged. “I haven’t got any story.”
“There’s one around here,” Preston insisted. “I can smell ’em. What’s Tilwitz doing upstairs?”
“Tilwitz is here because an old lady by the name of Mrs. Della Martin disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances.”
“I know that,” Rick Preston said. “What about the daughter she was looking for?”
“I don’t know,” said Collins.
“Aw, come on,” said Preston. “Give me a break. What’s your name?”
“John Collins. I can’t give you a break, because I don’t know anything to tell you. Mrs. Martin’s daughter stopped writing, and Mrs. Martin was worried. She came around to see me because she’d heard I met a lot of people here and there. I told her I’d look for her daughter. I didn’t find her.”
“Daughter disappears,” Preston muttered. “Then the old lady disappears. But, hell, there’s nothing you can put your finger on!”
“No,” said Collins. “Well, I’ll give you a ring if I hear anything.”
ollins came in the back door of his bungalow without making a sound. For a long time, he stood in the darkness of the cluttered kitchen, listening.
When he was sure there was no one but himself in the bungalow, he went on into the front room and closed the curtains and turned on the pink lamp.
Even now, very faintly, he could detect the odor of lilac toilet water that Mrs. Martin had brought with her, like a wistful old-fashioned memory of her own prim person. He sat down in front of the little piano and stayed there, hunched over, grave and motionless, frowning a little.
He had no illusions about his own position. He was involved in a train of events that coiled through the backstreets of Hollywood, touched the studios and the gaudy movie-rich mansions beyond them, and looped back to that ugly, empty little room in the Fortmount Hotel where Tilwitz sat and waited like a spider to see what would fall into his web. Tilwitz could be casual and disarmingly cynical, but he didn’t deceive Collins any. Let something happen—anything to give him a start—and Tilwitz would pounce.
Collins began to play absently, and the tune tinkled through the room with a neat plaintive swing. There was something that prodded deep back in Collins’ mind—something that had to do with secret cynical laughter and Mrs. Della Martin—something …
The telephone rang and jerked him back to reality. He got up and went across to the stand beside the door and lifted the instrument from its cradle.
“Yes?”
“Is this Mr. John Collins?” It was a feminine voice—low and throaty and theatrical—and unmistakably young.
“Yes,” said Collins slowly.
“This is Myra Martin, Mr. Collins.”
“What?” said Collins. “Who?”
“Myra Martin. I want to talk to you—tonight. Can you come to the old Regent Studios at once?”
“Are you—”
“Please come. Now.”
The line hummed emptily, and Collins put the telephone back on its stand. He swept up his hat and started for the back of the house, and then he stopped suddenly and stared at the battered little piano. Now he remembered the tune he had been playing when the telephone rang.
It was “Oh, Susanna.” And now he knew the meaning of the secret little doubt that had pried at his mind, and he knew why Mrs. Della Martin had disappeared and where, and he knew what had happened to Myra Martin and why.
Hollywood had gone away and left the Regent Studios. They were forlorn and alone in a residential area of small houses and small stores north of Santa Monica Boulevard. They dated back before sound—ancient history—and the tall stucco wall that surrounded them was crumbling and streaked with rain mold.
There was one small light, wan and dim, burning over the massive iron gates of the main entrance.
Collins shoved at one of the gates experimentally, and it moved back at once, slick and oiled and quiet.
The sets extended in long rows outward from the hub of the entrance, crumbling and sagging and tattered, holding within themselves the memories of epics long forgotten.
Collins picked one of the streets and walked along it, passing from London to Hong Kong to a Zulu village and back to Deadwood Gulch, Arizona, all in the length of a hundred paces, and then he stopped short and waited while a light flicked once brightly over to his left, flicked again, and then was gone.
Collins moved into the shadow of a tipsy balcony. He moved again, after a moment, slipping between rough-edged boards into the blackness back of the set. He moved without making any noise at all. The grass brushed clammily at his legs, and then he reached another street and drifted quietly across it in the shadow of a medieval tower.
The light flicked once more, very close now, glittering behind the doors of a building that was like an enormous white tombstone. Collins approached very slowly, watching his path for obstructions, and stopped before steps that had probably looked like marble once but were now boards scarcely covered with a rotted remnant of oil cloth.
The big double doors of the building were warped. They hadn’t quite closed. Collins tested one of the board steps, finally rested his weight on it, and tested the next.
He reached the broad, dim stretch of the porch. He could hear the dull mumble of voices. He took two long quick steps and flattened against the wall beside the door.
“… think I’m fooling?”
said a voice that was thin and savagely tense.
“You are mad,” answered Derek Van Diesten’s hoarse, slightly accented baritone. “I think you must be insane.”
“Yeah?” The light flicked. “Look over there.”
“Ah!” said Van Diesten in a horrified gasp. “She is—she is—”
“She’s dead,” said the thin voice. “And they’ll prove you killed her, and they’ll hang you. I’ve fixed that. I’ve laid a trail—oh, a very careful one—that’ll bring it home right to your door.”
“You could not— They would not believe—”
“Oh, yes, they will. They’ll find her—where do you think? In your car, and the car will be wrecked. You killed her, and you were fleeing somewhere to hide the body when you skidded and went off the road. You ran away. You won’t be able to prove you didn’t, because I’ll leave you here all night. You’ll have no alibi. And that won’t be all. Oh, no. You see, I’ve prepared them for that find.”
“Those telephone calls,” Van Diesten said numbly. “Those calls to me about her …”
“Yes,” said the thin voice. “Those were from people who think you were living with her.”
“That is not true! I do not even know—”
“But they think you do, and they’ll testify you do. I planted clues that point to you at her boarding house.” The thin voice chuckled in an ugly way. “At a hotel, too. And other places, and with other people. Oh, they’ll find you easy enough, and when they do you’ll be finished.”
Van Diesten’s voice was shaky. “What—what do you want from me?”
“That’s nice,” the thin voice complimented. “I was afraid I was going to have to argue with you. I don’t want anything much—nothing at all from you. I want you to get me a job at a thousand dollars a week at the Mar Grande Studios.”
“I cannot—”
“Yes, you can. You work there, and you’ve got influence. I’ll be a technical expert of some kind or other working in an advisory capacity. It won’t cost you a cent, and you won’t ever hear anything more about murder or Myra Martin.”
There was no sound but Van Diesten’s hoarse breathing, until Collins kicked his heel gently back against the wall. Instantly the light flicked out.
